


Champagne and Roses

by Unforth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki Disease, Homeless yuri, M/M, Major Illness, Sick Yuri, Soulmates, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Whump, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 16:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Katsuki Yuri is dying. His soulmate has rejected him, and as a result he's contracted Hanahaki disease, invariably fatal  illness that afflicts those suffering from one-sided love.And then he meets Victor.*no one dies I promise*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My friend kitkatcabbit (Analisegrey on AO3) told me about Hanahaki disease. And then this happened. 
> 
> I've written the full first draft of this story but am dividing it into two chapters cause it's around 10k words. I'm posting the first today and will try to get the second chapter edited and posted tomorrow. But even if I don't manage that, it'll be out in the next few days.

Katsuki Yuri was dying.

Yuri met Hiroshi at the company Christmas party when Yuri was an intern during his junior year of college. Hiroshi was handsome, urbane, rich, successful...Yuri was a bottle of champagne gone before he confessed with a giggle that the events of their night together were *just like* his tattoo, stripping off his jacket and button up shirt to reveal the soulmate mark on his arm, a champagne bottle, the cork just popped, bubbly frothing out. Hiroshi laughed and, with a conspiratorial wink, revealed his matching tattoo.

Soulmates.

Yuri had found his soulmate.

To Hiroshi's other attractions could be added that they were meant to be. Soulmate tattoos always, *always* related to landmark events in the true loves' relationship. Yuri, at 20, had found what many people searched a lifetime for.

Life with Hiroshi was a dream come true: champagne and caviar, midnight yacht cruises in Tokyo Bay, gala openings and celebrity shindigs and thousand-dollar suits and drunken sex and money wasted like the champagne spilling from the tattooed bottle. Yuri was caught in the glamor of it, thrilled to drape his arm over Hiroshi's and beam and play the trophy husband. So what if they drank too much, ate too much, gained some weight, spoke too loudly, made some enemies? Yuri was happy and Hiroshi was perfect and Yuri had gone from being a broke MBA student to living a dream come true. What more could he want - what more could he need?

For three years, that was enough.

The car accident was a wake up call. It wasn't serious. No one was hurt. The car was totaled, and if Yuri hadn't swerved at the last moment they'd have hit a woman with a baby stroller. If Yuri hadn't been driving drunk it never would have happened.

He quit drinking.

He quit unnecessarily expensive indulgences.

He quit late-night parties fueled by hormones and booze and adrenaline.

He encouraged Hiroshi to quit with him.

Hiroshi refused. Hiroshi went to the parties without him. Hiroshi came home drunk and ignored Yuri, or rebuked him, or harrassed him. Hiroshi bought him lavish gifts and was furious when Yuri didn't want them, even though Yuri had repeatedly asked him to stop. Hiroshi cheated on him. Hiroshi was cruel, abusive emotionally and physically, when he was drunk and Yuri was sober.

Hiroshi couldn't *believe* how *boring* Yuri had become since the accident.

And yet Yuri loved him. Because they were *soulmates.* Meant to be. Married for life. The alternative was inconceivable. The alternative was...

Hiroshi served Yuri with divorce papers the same day Yuri returned home to find the locks changed and his scant personal belongings in boxes on the front stoop. No amount of importuning changed Hiroshi's mind. Soulmates were for Disney movies and children's dreams. Hiroshi couldn't care less about fantasies, he cared about working hard and playing harder, making money and drenching himself in hedonistic debauchery, nevermind who got hurt along the way.

Hiroshi couldn't care less about Yuri.

Yuri suspected, wept to think, that Hiroshi had *never* care about him.

Yuri hadn't bothered finishing his degree, hadn't spoken to his family in two years, and had no friends that weren't first Hiroshi's friends. Yuri owned nothing of his own, nothing that wasn't associated with Hiroshi, hardly anything that Hiroshi hadn't given him.

Yuri had no soulmate, no matter the matching tattoos on their arms.

Yuri had nothing. Yuri was no one. Yuri had no future alone. Hiroshi couldn't have destroyed Yuri more thoroughly if he'd murdered him.

Sickened, confronted by the bleak desperation of his situation, Yuri's stomach churned. He fell to his knees before Hiroshi's mansion and retched, opened his tear-filled eyes to see the ground before him strewn with bile and the remains of his lunch and chrysanthemums.

Hiroshi had rejected him. Any hope that the change was short term was dashed by the flowers laying limp and sad before him. Hanahaki disease only afflicted those eternally spurned by their lovers. And Hanahaki disease was always, *always* fatal.

Katsuki Yuri was *dying.*

Hiroshi had killed him.

He could take his belongings, start anew, build what life he could in the weeks or months or scant years left to him. If he was extremely lucky he might survive a decade; it was rare but it happened occasionally.

Who was he kidding?

Hiroshi was the love of Yuri's life, his one true mate, and now Hiroshi and everything they'd shared was gone. Looking between the chrysanthemums, his few things, and the manor door eternally locked to him, Yuri rose, bleakness making his heart ache, his chest twist with agony, and walked away.

Yuri left Hiroshi, left everything behind.

The sooner he died the better.

* * *

 

Hurrying up the subway station stairs, Victor was arrested by brilliant colors: a bouquet of flowers in a makeshift vase, diligently arranged and set upon one plinth of the guardrail surrounding the subway entrance.

* _Who would leave such a fine, likely expensive arrangement in such a place?_ *

* _Whatever. It doesn't matter._ *

The bouquet was forgotten by the time he arrived at work.

The next day, there was a second arrangement, as splendid as the first.

The third day, the first bouquet was gone but a cluster of vibrant roses had replaced it.

So it went, day after day, week after week, flowers arrayed no matter the season or weather, all in improvised containers - coffee cans, broken crockery, plastic take-out holders, anything that would hold water. The flowers were invariably fresh and lovely, on the hottest days and the coldest days.

After a month of such unexpected, mysterious bounty many of the subway station regulars were intrigued. Victor's curiosity was aroused. A trip to a florist proved his suspicion that the bouquets must cost an arm and a leg - heck, some shouldn't have existed at all, the flowers out of season and unobtainable from garden, field or greenhouse, or ungrowable and non-native to Japan. Some googling taught him to recognize many of the varied blooms, and a chance discovery that forget-me-nots were associated with remembrance and sorrow led him to a website of that listed flower symbology.

Every flower in the mysterious bouquets was associated with sadness, loneliness, betrayal, or lost love.

Anemones were the most common flower incorporated in the bouquets, symbolizing hopelessness.

Bounteous hydrangea spoke to heartlessness and loss.

There were chrysanthemums, for lost love, and statice for remembrance, calla lilies for innocence, and daffodils for misfortune. One day a tall display of long tapered flower stalks proved to be snapdragons, a flower associated with deception and presumption. Showy sunflowers recalled dedication ruined by arrogance. Baffled by the profusion, Victor concluded that there must be someone amongst his fellow commuters for whom the flowers were meant, someone who understood the coded messages and felt the weight of grief and sorrow and loss they communicated.

Several months after the first bouquet appeared, an early office meeting brought Victor to the station hours earlier than his regular time. Clouds grayed the morning, streets made misty by a frigid night and warming temperatures. By the diffused glow of the street lights Victor froze on the stairs and watched as a morose young man stared at a bouquet that hadn't been there yesterday. Lips thin in a frown, hair disheleved, clothes ragged, the man removed one flower, changed its position, stepped back and looked at the new arrangement pensively, and then nodded. Every movement was listless and resigned, and when he was done he turned away with his shoulders slumped.

"Wait!" Victor exclaimed. The man stopped, twisted quickly around, fear replacing sadness on his face. "I didn't mean to freak you out," Victor continued, huffing as he sprinted up the remaining stairs to stand before the man, who watched him warily. "Did you buy these arrangements?"

The man hesitated, then said suspiciously, "No...but I made them...why?"

"They're beautiful!"

* _Brilliant. Perfect._ _Totally_ _generic_ _._ _I'm_ _sure_ _he_ _didn't_ _realize that the_ _pretty_ _flowers_ _were pretty._ *

* _What,_ _like_ _it'd be better for me to admit how_ _obsessed_ _I've_ _been with_ _these_ _damn flowers?_ _That_ _I've_ _learned all their names and habitats and meanings?_ *

The man continued to watch, concern giving way to confusion.

"They cheer me up every day," Victor said. Better to say nothing of the flowers' subtext. Their message wasn't for him. He had no role in whatever story the man was playing out. "Thank you for sharing them."

The man blinked, then broke into a shy smile. To his amazement, Victor's heart fluttered. Pleasure youthened the stranger by years, brought a glimmer of joy to tired eyes dark behind thick glasses. The man ducked his head, tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and smiled more widely.

"I'm glad you like them," he said. "Um...you're welcome...?"

"Who are they for?" asked Victor.

* _Dammit, me, what part of '_ _it's_ _none of my_ _business_ _'_ _don't_ _I_ _understand_ _?_ *

"Huh?"

* _But...I want to know the_ _truth_ _! I want to know if_ _I'm_ _right. He_ _doesn't_ _have to answer if he_ _doesn't_ _want to..._ *

"You're sending a message to someone, right?" Victor said. "I've just wondered - who?"

The man's smile fell away, his expression haggard with grief once more.

* _Yup,_ _I'm_ _a prying_ _asshole_ _. Just_ _couldn't_ _keep_ _my_ _mouth_ _shut, could I..._ *

"I'm sorry," Victor stammered. The sadness on the young man's face was painful to behold. "That was really fuckin' presumptuous of me...forget I--"

"They're for me," interrupted the man, heaving a sigh. "It's all for me. It's all I have."

Without another word, the man fled, jogging down a street and dodging around a corner as if afraid Victor would pursue him. Watching him go, Victor echoed the man's sigh and turned toward the street leading to his office. Though he had meetings with clients all day, responsibilities aplenty to occupy him, the encounter preoccupied him. He wanted to see the stranger again, to apologize, to ask his name, to say anything that might take the sorrow from his countenance and bring back his lovely smile.

The next morning, he arrived early once more in the hopes of seeing the man again, but he wasn't there, nor the morning after, nor the morning after that.

But new bouquets continued to appear.

* * *

 

Everyday was the same.

Yuri woke up. His body ached from sleeping on the hard ground. His skin was chilled and chapped where wind and weather had penetrated his makeshift cardboard shelter and beaten at him for hours. His clothes were gross from being worn day after day, his skin smudged with dirt and crumbs and woeaw, and there was only the frigid water of the river with which to cleanse himself. The same source provided him enough to drink, and he tried to not think about how he'd later relieve himself there.

At least he had water and a spot to himself where he was rarely harassed.

Invariably, he was sick to his stomach regardless of if he'd eaten his fill or starved the day before. Invariably, he would vomit, spreading flowers and petals before him.

Everyday was the same.

Dawn came, a little later each day as winter approached, a little earlier each day after the solstice passed. The other vagrants avoided him, calling his illness a curse, warding him off as if he were contagious. People who used the waterfront - normal people, living people, so vibrant compared to the waking unlife that was Yuri's existence - passed by, ignoring him as if he were invisible as they jogged or strolled or flirted or boated. They only noticed him if he coughed or gagged, only noticed if he left the flowers about the niche that he called home.

Yuri hated when they noticed him.

The flowers had to go.

Yuri took what rubbish he could find that would hold water, arranged the flowers within, and brought them to the nearest subway stop. At first he thought people would take them. The flowers were caused by misery, were themselves a source of misery, but surely they could make someone happy. Surely someone who didn't know where the blobs came from could get joy from them.

But of course he was wrong. Yuri was cursed, the flowers were cursed, and no matter how elaborate or fancy he made the arrangement the flowers were always there the next morning.

No one wanted his disease, no matter how lovely it presented itself, anymore than anyone wanted Yuri.

He should pitch the damn things into the river and let them float out to the Bay, a funerary commemoration to his life. Maybe Hiroshi would run over some of them with his damn yacht.

Everyday was the same.

Except...

Yuri had been ready to give up, had longed to die, before the silver-haired stranger admired his flowers, before he said "Thank you."

In that moment, Yuri felt real again, felt alive again. It was awful and terrifying and revitalizing and * _essential._ *

So Yuri kept fighting, a year after contracting Hanahaki. He kept getting up in the morning, kept making his arrangements, kept waiting for death without courting it.

Everyday was the same...

"Hey! It's you!"

...until they weren't.

Yuri blinked at the jogger who had stopped before his home, gawking and pointing.

Silver hair...a big grin...bright blue eyes... the only change in the appearance of the man who had thanked Yuri at the train stop was that, then, he had been elegantly dressed in a suit and long wool coat, and now he wore athletic gear and his hair was matted to his forehead by sweat.

Yuri had profoundly appreciated what the man had said to him.

Yuri had changed his entire daily routine to guarantee he wouldn't meet the man again.

"It is! You're the flower guy!"

Sickness twisted Yuri's vision as it twisted his stomach and, ashamed and disgusted with himself, Yuri retreated into his ill-built hovel. The dimness within was calming, but not enough to overcome the discomfort of being recognized, being known. He wanted was to disappear. Knuckling at his mouth, he tried to hold back the bile rising in his throat.

Light flooded the tiny space.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude, or to freak you out * _again_ *, but--"

Yuri gagged and upchucked on the rough dirt floor. Hyacinth, anemones, and carnations spilled out, stained yellow by bile. He'd not eaten in a day but it didn't matter, the flowers formed as magically as soulmate tattoos did and required no sustenance. They didn't grow, they simply were. They fed off the unfortunate broken soul of the abandoned and broken hearted, or so said the mythology. That's why the sufferer died - because their soul was drained to create the floral embodiment of their misery.

At least contemplating the flowers' origin gave him something to think about other than the burn of acid in his throat and the mortification of revealing his disease to the intrusive stranger. Remembering he was under observation brought up more bile and yellow roses to add to the profusion. After what felt a lifetime, he had nothing left in him - no stomach acid, no water, no food, no flowers, no soul, no hope. Gasping and crying, chest aching from the exertion, he used the back of a hand to wipe his mouth and eyes. Sunlight burned his vision, only partially obscured by the silhouette of the handsome stranger. Blinking against tears that continued to flow, Yuri looked blearily at the man.

The man looked...sad.

* _Why?_ *

"I didn't know," said the stranger sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

* _Oh right._ _He's_ _sad because now he knows_ _I'm_ _dying._ _I'm_ _nothing more than a hollow shell defined by my illness. Before he knew_ _I_ _was sick, he saw a man, but now all he sees are flowers and what they represent._ *

* _And so_ _I'm_ _alone_ _again_ _. Always alone..._ *

Rancorous words filled Yuri's head, spurred by the remembered reactions of others who'd met him and believed him cursed, contagious, forsaken, disgusting, more repulsive than a leper, more untouchable than a burakumin. Yuri repressed his anger. This stranger had been kind when they first met, and looked at him with pity now rather than condemnation. There was no use in taking out his rage on this man. Hiroshi was the one who deserved Yuri's fury but Yuri could never confront him, didn't want to confront him. Besides, anger required energy, required investment.

There was no point in exerting himself. Getting angry would change nothing, and drive away the only person who'd shown him goodwill in a year.

Hopeless, Yuri shook his head. The man couldn't help Yuri. No one could.

The stranger pursed his lips, eyes lowered, and  Yuri waited for him to leave. Instead, the man broke into a smile, thrust a hand toward him, and said, "I'm Victor."

Too surprised, too dazed from his recent illness to protest, Yuri reciprocated the offered handshake unthinking. "Yuri."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Yuri," said Victor. He sounded warm, genuine, kind. He sounded like he actually thought it was a pleasure to meet Yuri. Astonished, Yuri gawked. Fresh tears made trails down his cheeks.

Victor touched him. Victor smiled at him. Victor pitied him. Victor liked his flowers. Victor was pleased to meet him.

Bright sunlight burned his vision. Light made the yellows and pinks and reds of the flowers around them vibrant and saturated, framed Victor like a panel from one of the shojo manga Yuri had enjoyed as a child and had been unable to bear reading since Hiroshi tossed him aside like garbage.

Something inside Yuri snapped, broke so suddenly, so thoroughly, that he was amazed Victor didn't flinch, that the boxes didn't explode outward from them, that the entire city wasn't roused.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him.

Collapsing to his knees, still holding Victor's hand, Yuri sobbed.

"I'm sorry..." Victor said helplessly. Yuri shook his head, eyes too fogged with tears for him to see, mind too overcome to understand or attempt a reply. He prayed that Victor would leave him to his solitary misery...

...prayed that Victor would stay...

Warmth encompassed him, enclosed him: a hand tangled in his hair, an arm encircled his back, a solid body supported his chest. Victor held him close, like they were old friends instead of strangers. Yuri should reject the embrace, should rebuke Victor's presumption of intimacy, but he couldn't. Tenderness felt too nice. He'd been alone so long. Crying from loneliness, shame, relief, Yuri tucked his face into the curve of Victor's neck and sobbed until the tears stopped coming.

Victor patted him, pet his back, murmured soothing words in his ear, treated him with unearned kindness. Only when Yuri was outwardly calm did he move away.

"I have to go. But I'll see you tomorrow," Victor promised before he left.

And Yuri found he did have a glimmer of hope left, for as the tarp flapped shut behind Victor, he searched his roiled thoughts and discovered * _anticipation._ *

"Thank you," he murmured to the empty hovel and the scattered flowers.

Tomorrow, if Victor kept his promise, Yuri would express his appreciation in person. As many times as he'd been let down and betrayed, yet he looked forward to seeing Victor again, and no amount of berating himself throughout the day could dispel his optimism.

Maybe everyday didn't * _have_ * to be the same.

* _I'm a fool. He'll never come back. Why would he? Why would anyone come back for me?_ *

* _But it's nice to believe he might for just 24 hours..._ *

* _Tomorrow will show the truth._ *

* * *

 

There was a bounce in Victor's step as he set out for his morning jog. The route was familiar, rote, traversed day after day without variarion. He must have passed Yuri's makeshift home a hundred times, two hundred, more, depending on when Yuri took up residence there. The embankments alongside the river were dotted with pathetic homes made of cardboard and bright blue tarps but they'd always been invisible to Victor before, a sad but unavoidable aspect of living in a big city, even one so wealthy and safe as Tokyo. Eying the other dwellings as he ran, Victor wondered at their inhabitants, but it was an idle curiosity. Though his sympathy was aroused to the essential humanity of those he'd long ignored, he couldn't pretend interest in any beyond Yuri, handsome, young, forlorn, lonely, and dying.

* _If I ever met Yuri's soulmate..._ *

"Yuri!" Victor shouted as he spotted Yuri leaning toward to water to fill a pail. Yuri startled up, blinked, broke into a smile and waved. Victor closed the distance between them, grinning and huffing with exertion. Yuri's smile widened, twinkled in his eyes, and Victor couldn't help taking a moment to admire the young man. Even with unkempt hair and thick glasses and tattered clothing, Yuri was beautiful.

...that someone lucky enough to have a soulmate, fortunate to find their other half, would take them for granted, mistreat them, forsake them to a lonely, slow death...

"Um, hi," mumbled Yuri, with an awkward wave.

...Yuri's soulmate deserved the suffering he or she had heaped on Yuri, deserved it multiplied a hundred, a thousand times over.

Victor had learned the hard way, if he wanted something - someone - he had to act while he could, before it was too late.

"I left early this morning so we'd have some time together - if that's okay?"

Hanahaki should afflict the rebuker, not the rebuked.

Life wasn't fair. Victor knew that long before he met Yuri.

"I'd like that," said Yuri, voice growing more confident. "Come in? I've got columbine and daffodils today..."

* _But sometimes, we can give a big fuck you to fate, if only for a few days..._ *

"I'd love to," said Victor so warmly that Yuri's cheeks flushed. "Can we make arrangements to take to the station together?"

Yuri blushed redder yet but nodded hesitantly. "If...uh...if you really want to."

"I * _do_ * want." Victor hoped his candid look communicated louder than words. Judging by Yuri's reaction, Yuri believed him, but to be sure, Victor grabbed Yuri's hand, threaded their fingers together, and took a step toward Yuri's tent. "Let's go!"

Yuri didn't budge.

Victor looked back, quirked his head in a question, and smiled. Yuri looked astonished, then confused, and finally happy. A glow of pleasure suffused Victor.

"Yeah...okay...let's go."

* _If it's the last thing I do...however long Yuri has, I'll make sure he learns how special he is and how little he deserves this fate._ *

"And Victor...thank you. For liking my flowers, and for yesterday, and today, and..." Yuri shrugged, words failing him.

* _If I can't be with my own soulmate, at least I can bring joy to one abandoned by the person who should have loved them most._ *

"The pleasure is mine, Yuri. You'll never owe me anything, not even thanks."

* * *

 

"What do the columbine mean?" asked Yuri, holding up one of the pink and white flowers, long thin petals flared out like streamers from the central blossom.

"Faithlessness, especially that of a lover," Victor supplied.

"And these?" Yuri fished out a red flower with draping, fuzzy looking fronds. "I don't even know what it's called."

"Love lies bleeding," said Victor.

"That's what it symbolizes? That's...oddly specific."

"That's the name of the flower," Victor corrected. "It symbolizes hopelessness."

Heaving a sigh, Yuri scowled at the profusion that his illness had produced the night before. "I had no idea my flowers were so depressing. Though I suppose, all things considered, I shouldn't be surprised. Guess I'm lucky I met someone who knows so much about botany and symbolism. Are you a florist?"

"I'm a banker," said Victor. "I learned about flowers because of you." Yuri looked up sharply. "I wanted to know more about the bouquets left at the train station so I looked up the types of flowers, and from there I stumbled on the meanings. Hydrangea for heartlessness, carnations for rejection, daffodils for unrequited love, yellow roses for infidelity, on and on, all speaking to love gone wrong. I thought whoever left them was sending a message to someone who took that train."

"I suppose I was, I just didn't realize it," said Yuri with a mirthless laugh.

Victor fished a white rose from the carpet of flowers and used a rag to clean yellow bile from the delicate petals. The rose was unique, the only one like it amidst a hundred or more other flowers, the only one that Victor had ever seen among Yuri's cursed blooms.

* _White roses mean innocence...purity...naivete...silence...humility...so many flowers that advertise the negative traits of the person who hurt you, and only this single, lonely beauty to praise your virtue..._ *

Moved, Victor offered the cleaned flower to Yuri, who took it and added it to a bouquet, oblivious to its meaning and how its symbolism applied to him. Intent on his arrangement, Yuri worked on flower placement while Victor retrieved blooms, cleaned them, and passed them over.

"His name was Hiroshi," Yuri said at length, shooting Victor a side-eyed glance. Victor tried with a return look to convey confusion, interest, sympathy, encouragement. Yuri grimaced, looked away, but continued, "My soulmate. His name was...is...Hiroshi, and we were together for three years. At first, we..."

And Yuri told him everything.

And Victor burned with impotent fury that anyone could take a friend, a lover, a soulmate, even a stranger, for granted as Hiroshi had done to Yuri.

* _If I ever meet this Hiroshi, I'm shoving that white rose down his throat, thorns and all..._ *

* * *

 

"A date?" Baffled, Yuri blinked at Victor, his stomach twisting as his nerves flared.

"When two people like each other, sometimes they choose to spend time together while meeting at an eating establishment, or perhaps viewing a movie at the cinema." Victor smirked as he spoke slowly and pantomimed with his hands, two pointer fingers coming together then bouncing off side by side.

"You want to go on a date with * _me_ *?" Yuri clarified.

"No, I was asking Kirin Ichiban." Turning his face upwards, Victor addressed the box that formed the roof of Yuri's home. "Kirin-san, would you like to go steady?"

"* _Why?_ *"

"If you'll recall my recent definition, I suggested that people who like each other date," said Victor, rolling his eyes. "Do I need further reason?"

A sharp pain Yuri's midriff brought lunch up along with entire branches of cherry blossoms. Twigs scratched his throat and mouth, pollen clogged his nose, and he retched until his body was weak and achy.

"Not the most positive reaction I've had to asking someone out," said Victor, somehow still smirking, a repressed laugh heartening his voice.

"You still want to?" Speaking burned Yuri's throat. His words were raspy. He blinked tears away to stare incredulity at Victor.

"I'm nothing if not persistent..."

Another jabbing pain in his stomach brought up another sakura branch, and as it clattered to the floor, Yuri shook his head.

"It's impossible," he said, surprised by how sad the admission made him. "I haven't showered in a year. I have nothing to wear. And if I sick up in public..." Pink petals clung to the insides of his mouth and he spat them out pointedly. Victor, somehow, was unphased, all smiles, all twinkling eyes, all perfect hair.

* _He's so beautiful. Why does he even talk to me? What am_ _I_ _to him? Why am_ _I_ _anything?_ *

"You can shower at my apartment, or I'll pay for a motel room for the night." Victor's sincerity shone from every feature. "I can lend you clothes, or borrow some in your size. If you get sick, we'll deal with it if and when it happens. If you want to get dinner with me, we can make it work."

A legion of objections sprang to mind to bolster and support those that Victor had refuted but one overarching thought overrode them all.

As miserable as his life was, as pointless as pursuing anything with Victor was when they were surely not soulmates and Yuri might die any day, Yuri * _did_ * want to go on a date with him.

* _...and not just because he's the only person who's been kind to me since...since...since I don't remember when..._ *

* _At least, I don't think_ _I_ _want to only because_ _I'm_ _grateful. No,_ _it's_ _definitely_ _more_ _than_ _that_ _._ _He's_ _smart and funny and generous and_ _sweet_ _and gorgeohs...and_ _I_ _like_ _him_ _, too._ *

Grimacing, Yuri nodded reluctantly.

"Now that's the enthusiasm I was looking for!" Victor's laughter shamed Yuri into a rueful smile. * _How could_ _I_ _not like him?_ _He's_ _a force of nature...irrepressible...irresistible..._ * "Are you free tomorrow night..." Victor trailed off as if waiting for Yuri. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that Victor wanted to know his availability.

Laughing, he said, "Sorry, I'm busy. So busy. All the time. Very important things to do."

Victor's answering smile was like a sunrise on a winter's day, warming all the cold places that Yuri had thought permanently numbed within him.

"My place or a motel for the clean up?"

"Your apartment is fine," said Yuri with a shrug. "If you turn out to be a serial killer...well, it's not like I've got long anyway."

Victor didn't even flinch.

* _Doesn't he care that I'm dying? Why is he asking me out? Surely he has something, anything, better to do with his time and energy and money._ *

"I still don't understand why," Yuri added, unable to keep bitterness out of his hoarse voice.

"Because you deserve better," said Victor. "And because I wish I'd been there for you before it was too late. I wish we could have had years together. So I'll take what I can get, and be the boyfriend you deserved from the get-go, if you'll have me."

"I don't want a dream boyfriend," Yuri objected.

"What * _do_ * you want?"

"You." The reply came before Yuri could think, before he could restrain himself, and he blushed crimson. His stomach heaved and he pressed a hand to his belly as if force of will could keep the next round of vomit down. Afraid to look up, he idly rearranged the branches on the ground before him until a finger landed on his chin and forced his head up. Victor was * _still_ * beaming at him.

"Sounds like we want the same thing, then.."

* _Damn him for being so good looking, for caring enough to keep pestering me._ *

"You want you too?"

* _Damn him for being smart and funny and endearing._ *

"Well, that drained all the romanticism from the moment. Puke I can withstand but puns about my bad grammar choices? Unpardonable."

* _Damn him for making me smile, making me laugh, making me feel again._ *

"I didn't realize there was any romanticism left after I threw up all over your work shoes."

* _Damn him for accepting me exactly as I am, as Hiroshi could never accept me._ *

"I've had worse."

* _And damn me for hoping._ *

Yuri quirked a questioning eyebrow.

* _Why isn't Victor my soulmate?_ *

"So this one time, I went on a date with this older man, and..."

Yuri zoned out to the sing-song quality of Victor's voice telling his meandering tale. Victor must have a soulmate somewhere but he apparently didn't care. He never mentioned them, and this wasn't the first time he'd told a story suggesting he felt free to pursue relationships regardless of his tattoo. Yuri * _would_ * die but maybe, with Victor, he could find the happiness he'd never experienced with Hiroshi. Maybe Vicyor was right. Maybe Yuri did deserve a nice date.

His stomach, for once, was calm.

* _Victor isn't and will never be my soulmate._ *

* _Maybe he doesn't have to be, for us to be something to each other._ *

* _Maybe_ _we_ _don't_ _need matching tattoos for us to be happy together..._ *

* _...for_ _however_ _long_ _I_ _have_ _..._ *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait til later today but I got this edited yesterday and I have no willpower so...

Yuri was so * _thin._ * The thick clothing he normally wore obscured his frame enough that it wasn't until Victor slid his hands beneath the fabric and kneaded his palms up Yuri's sides that he realized that Yuri was emaciated. Anger bubbled within him, and sympathy and frustration, but he subsumed all into kissing Yuri more aggressively, pinning him against the door of Victor's apartment.

"Victor..." Yuri's breath smelled of flowers, tasted like nectar, and Victor couldn't get enough. His hands reached Yuri's shoulders and he worked them between Yuri's back and the door, raking nails down his skin. Yuri bucked against him and moaned soft and sweet into Victor's mouth.

"Victor, I should--"

"Stay with me," Victor interrupted, aggressive, imploring. Yuri's mouth was yet open to continue speaking but Victor cut him off with another kiss.

Everytime Victor got Yuri alone, in his apartment, with the door closed, just the two of them, Yuri begged off, donned his own clothes, returned to his pathetic excuse for a home.

"But Victor--"

"* _Please._ *" Victor stepped back to give Yuri space, regretting the loss of proximity, heat, affection. Yuri's dark eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet and tempting. Victor longed to fling himself to Yuri, to kiss him until they were both drunk on pleasure, but his request that Yuri stay was serious, and required space apart and time.

"You don't owe me anything," Victor said. "You can sleep in my bedroom - there's a lock on the door - if you're worried I'll try to take more than you want to share--"

"I know you'd never--!"

"--but just...stay."

* _It's so cold out. It's raining so hard. You're so thin and weak. I can't bear that you should pass the night alone and shivering when I can keep you warm and safe. I can't bear watching you walk out my door, never knowing if I'll see you alive again._ *

Victor couldn't look up, couldn't look at Yuri  - blindingly beautiful and infinitely far away.

"Please."

"I can't."

Yuri never could. But Victor had never had the nerve to ask...

"Why not?"

Yuri looked miserably from Victor to the door, and Victor took a step back and gestured invitation for Yuri to leave. Victor would use any fair means to convince Yuri to stay but he'd never coerce Yuri or force him. If Yuri ddn't * _want_ * to stay, then Victor didn't want him to. Tears stung Victor's eyes. Yuri's frown deepened, his expression grew sadder, but nonetheless he turned and put a hand on the door knob.

* _And I can't escape the feeling...I'm certain that this time, if he walks out, I won't see him again._ *

Victor closed his eyes. He'd never force Yuri to stay but he couldn't watch him go.

A gentle finger skimmed beneath Victor's eye, smearing a tear over his cheek.

"Why are you crying?" Astonishingly, Yuri sounded like the question was genuine, like he couldn't fathom why the discussion would upset Victor.

"Because I'm * _angry,_ * you idiot!" Victor lied, eyes flashing open to confront a startled Yuri. "Quit acting like we're not invested in each other - quit acting like it's a surprise that I give a damn about you!" The longer he spoke, the more strident he became, the more real his anger grew. "We've been talking for months, dating for weeks. So yes, I'm upset at the thought of you leaving. But don't let that stop you, and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You've got a fucked up way of showing that!"

"You don't understand! If I stay...if you get as attached as...if you become attached to me..." Yuri's voice failed him. He opened his mouth to try again, and again failed. Victor, panting with ire and the effort of keeping himself from locking Yuri in his apartment and never letting him go, couldn't pretend to patience but managed to keep his mouth shut as he waited. Finally, Yuri licked his lips and said weakly, "I'm dying, Victor. I'm going to die. I don't want you to..." Yuri shook his head. "I don't want you to be sad."

"You don't get to make that choice for me," said Victor.

"But I can make it for * _me_ *." Yuri's eyes flashed with a spark to match Victor's fire. "You know what's worse than wasting away and waiting to fricken * _die_ *? Hoping..." Their gazes met. "...knowing you'll be sad when I go. I don't want you to be sad. It should be enough that I suffer, without my bringing suffering to anyone else."

"And you don't think I'll suffer if you leave now? I know you're dying." Victor knew it too well, yet it was still hard to say aloud. They'd never spoken of it; them both declaring it made it real, far too real. "I know I can't fix what's wrong with you, that no one can. But I can make sure you're warm and clothed and fed and cared for and cared * _about._ * I don't understand why you won't let me."

The bold front of Yuri's resolution crumbled. Shoulders slumping, he listed forward a step and collapsed into Victor's arms.

"It...it hurts," he mumbled. "You don't deserve this."

"And you do?"

Yuri shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Stay, Yuri. Not for my sake - stay for your own. If being with me makes you as happy as being with you makes me, let's enjoy each other as long as we can. Let's take what happiness is available. Please..." Victor wrapped his arms around Yuri's back, hugged him close, tucked his face against Yuri's head. "Please, Yuri."

Deep silence stretched out, and though Yuri said nothing his body language spoke his surrender: limp, at ease, breathing even, comfortable in Victor's arms. Their tears mingled and combined where their faces touched. Victor twisted and pressed a kiss to Yuri's temple and only then did Yuri nod his assent.

"I've got PJs that'll fit you," said Victor gently. "Do you want the couch or the bed?"

"Wherever you are, that's where I'll be. Is that okay, Victor?"

"Yuri, I've never heard anything more okay in my life."

With gentle urgings, Victor steered Yuri toward his bedroom, nursing the hope that this would be how every night went from now on, and that they'd have a long time together before Hanahaki disease and the accursed Hiroshi stole Yuri from him.

* * *

"Oh, fuck," groaned Victor, settling back on his heels, taking Yuri deep into him. Breathless, Yuri stared in awe at the masterpiece before him. Victor was incredible as he straddled Yuri. His silver hair tumbled in disheleved locks about his face and neck. His head was thrown back in ecstasy, his skin flushed red from his forehead to his nipples. His cock stood proud inches above Yuri's belly and his hole was tight around Yuri's dick. Overwhelmed by the stunning view, by the intense pleasure enveloping him, Yuri squeezed his eyes shut. Hiroshi had never let Yuri top, fixated on mysogynistic views of masculinity and femininity that Yuri had known were bullshit but hadn't argued against. Hiroshi was his soulmate; what Hiroshi wanted was objectively correct in the context of their relationship regardless of what Yuri knew to be true in general. So he'd always thought; he'd learned too late that--

Victor rose, sank back down agonizingly slowly, and Hiroshi was banished from Yuri's thoughts. Forcing his eyes open, he watched as Victor lifted himself again, lowered himself again. Victor's eyes were closed, his mouth hanging slackly open, and he didn't pause before rising again, fucking back down again, rapture evident in every worshipful movement.

* _Why couldn't Victor have been my soulmate? Why isn't Victor my soulmate?_ *

* _It's not fair._ *

It was a month since they'd started living together and two weeks since the first time Yuri saw Victor's bare forearm. In all the months they'd spent together, Victor had always worn long sleeves, intent on keeping his mark hidden, and Yuri had never asked what tattoo he bore. Since there was no chance they'd match, asking seemes pointless. The reality proved prosaic. His soulmate tattoo was a single red rose with a long stalk, thorns portrayed in the same exquisite detail as the crimson petals, dew drops gleaming perfection on the veined leaves. It made a sweet romantic counterpoint to the just-popped bottle of champagne rendered to the least fizzy bubble on Yuri's arm, but there was no pretending they were a matched set. Yuri knew exactly where his soulmate was, could calculate precisely the price he'd paid for finding Hiroshi and being with him.

Where was Victor's soulmate? Had they met? Had they parted? Victor never spoke of them, never seemed to search, appeared to want no partner save Yuri. In Yuri's bleakest moments, when depression and hopelessness ate at his will to survive, he wondered if Victor had done to another what Hiroshi had done to Yuri. And in his happiest moments--

"Yuri?"

Yuri blinked, shocked that his attention had wandered again. Victor had stopped moving, instead looking down at him with sweet concern.

"Are you alright? Do you need to stop?"

Victor's body clenched around him as if to keep him place no matter how generously Victor suggested they need not continue. Yuri groaned, hips rocking up from the bed to chase the feeling, to draw out his fleeting bliss.

"I'm fine," Yuri reassured him, cupping Victor's hips in his hands and thrusting up again. Skepticism cast a brief pall over Victor; he raked his gaze down Yuri's chest and his expression spoke to the ruin he saw and the concern it engendered. "Victor...I'm great. You fell * _amazing_ *. This is just...this is so much."

"Too much?" asked Victor with a wink and a suggestive wiggle of his behind.

Yuri hissed, tightened his grip and thrust up hard. Victor's gasp was delicious, the dry susuration of thigh-on-thigh and wet slap of Victor's dick against Yuri's navel perfect. The friction and heat of Victor's body sparked bliss beyond anything Yuri had experienced and he couldn't stop thrusting, couldn't stop chasing the sensation, didn't * _want_ * to stop the heat building in his gut. Victor mimicked his movements, slamming himself down to match every upthrust from the bed. Sex with Victor was all-consuming, all-devouring, and Yuri wished he could drown in the feeling and never come up for air.

* _It's a better way to die than--_ *

"Stay with me," Victor moaned, voice so abstracted Yuri wondered if he knew what he said or why he said it. "Yuri, please...please..."

"I'm here, Victor...what do you need?"

Victor's eyes flashed open, unfocused, his expression suddenly youthful and vulnerable and achingly beautiful.

"Fuck me!" The needy catch on Victor's voice was at odds with the filthy language.

Yuri would do * _anything_ * to answer Victor's plea, anything to make Victor happy.

"I'm right here."

Even knowing it to be wrong, to inevitably lead to more loss and sorrow, Yuri stayed.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The lie burned at his tongue. His illness was growing worse. He barely ate, hardly slept, struggled to find the energy even to leave the house. Sex with Victor, as glorious as it was, would keep him bedridden for a day. Soon, Yuri would be gone, and no romantic sentiments or mid-coital promises would change that.

"I'm yours, Victor."

* _I love you, Victor._ *

Victor choked on a deep groan and wrapped a hand around his cock. Two quick strokes and he came, semen splattering Yuri's belly. Victor's muscles tensed around him and Yuri struggled to thrust, pleasure cresting in him, burning away fatigue and pain and nausea, wiping his mind with searing light. The feeling was so encompassing that it wasn't until it ebbed that he realized he'd climaxed. Victor rested above him, panting with effort, shivering with after-shocks that left his expression lax with bliss.

* _I wish this would last forever._ *

With a replete sigh, Victor flopped down beside him. Yuri gasped as cold air swept over his still-sensitive dick and Victor chuckled, tucking himself against Yuri's side and using a finger to trace patterns in the come on Yuri's belly.

"Good?" he asked.

"Perfect," Yuri agreed.

"Never say perfect," scolded Victor. Yuri lifted his head enough to look his surprise at Victor, who scowled. "Always leave room for improvement."

"Fine - not perfect." Yuri slumped back on the bed. His muscles scarce seemed to have strength left to support his head. "The best I've ever had."

* _The best I'm ever likely to have. How long do I have left?_ *

"Me too." It sounded like a confession, but Yuri couldn't lift his head again to see the expression that accompanied with words.

* _How long do_ *we* _have left?_ *

The thought brought nausea, and Yuri was grateful that Victor said nothing more and seemed to expect nothing more from Yuri. After a time, Victor drew a blanket over them, heedless of the mess of dried come and lube, and continued close beside him. Only Victor's too-rapid heartbeat thrumming against Yuri's shoulder told him that they both yet lay awake.

"Are * _you_ * alright, Victor?" Yuri asked.

"Gotta pee," Victor deflected, throwing the blankets aside, rising abruptly, and heading to the bathroom. He was back quickly, brazen in his confident nudity and carrying a washcloth. Drawing the covers back, he sponged up the mess on Yuri's stomach and crotch, avoiding eye contact so obviously that Yuri's stomach flopped and he swallowed back flowers. Victor's arm worked back and forth, muscles playing beneath the skin to give the tattoed rose the appearance of swaying in a breeze.

"Who are they?" Yuri asked abruptly. Anything to break the silence, break the suspense, distract him from his sickness if only for a few more minutes. Victor blinked confusion toward him. "Your soulmate. Who are they?"

"Oh," said Victor indifferently. "That. His name was Christophe Giacometti."

"Was?"

"He died in a car accident."

"I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have asked. I should--"

"Yuri," snapped Victor. "I'm fine."

"But--"

"I'm * _fine._ * We never met." Victor met and held his gaze and Yuri was brought up short. "He was 12 when he died. I didn't even find out 'til I was 20, and then only because his parents posted his tattoo to one of those 'find your mate' services. Taking pity on the poor sucker deprived of a soulmate, they wrote this heartfelt thing all about their agony at losing a son and how they knew someone out there shared their pain. I don't share their damn pain. How could I? Who the hell is Christophe Giacometti to me? Our so-called connection was a cosmic mistake, like we went to the same tattoo artist and coincidentally picked out the same design from the flash sheet. I'm sure that happens all the time and no one pretends that means anything, but I'm supposed to love a six-year-dead stranger? Soulmates are bullshit - surely you know that better than anyone. Nature says we're compatible with this other person but nurture can change them beyond recognition, or a single freak accident can break the supposedly unbreakable bond. These tattoos don't mean * _anything._ * You--"

Victor stopped, eyes intent on Yuri's, brought up short by some emotion as Yuri waited with baited breath for him to continue.

"You mean something," Victor muttered, looking away. "You should be my...I mean...you are, in every way that matters. You mean so much to me."

Yuri's stomach quieted. Reaching out, he took Victor's hand, threw the washcloth aside and interlaced their fingers. Twisting their arms around, he pressed their forearms together and pulled Victor atop him, hiding their tattoos. Silver hair tangled with Yuri's black, blue eyes met brown, tawny skin brushed against pale peach, and their body heat combined to radiate comfort and security.

"You mean everything," murmured Yuri. "You must know that's how I feel."

Victor flinched against him, then relaxed.

"I do now."

Yuri slept better than he had since before he got sick, before he lost Hiroshi, before he * _met_ * Hiroshi.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't alone.

* * *

Hacking coughs woke Victor for the third time that night. A burst of adrenaline and fear banished fatigue, and by the dim city light that ebbed through the window he made out Yuri's contorted form as he gagged and vomited again.

* _At least he's alive...one morning--_ *

* _Don't think about it._ *

Victor sat up, wrapped an arm around Yuri's waist, used the other to sweep Yuri's hair from his face, and cradled him as Yuri quaked with sickness. There was nothing Victor could do save be present. Yuri curled into Victor's heat. Yuri's skin was clammy, his frame so thinned Victor wondered how he didn't break under the strain of his coughs. Even the spasms of his retching were weak.

* _One morning..._ *

* _Don't think about it._ *

It felt like a lifetime before Yuri finally stopped. Flowers mounded before him so high that petals brushed the back of Victor's hand as he encircled Yuri's belly.

* _A lifetime of before Yuri stops coughing...it's not hyperbole...it_ *is* _a lifetime, ticking down with every cough. And one morning..._ *

* _Do. Not. Think. About. It._ *

"I'll clean up," said Victor, though he wanted little less than to move.

"Why bother?" Yuri's voice, cracked and broken by the damage to his throat, was unrecognizable. "It'll just happen again."

"Then I'll clean up again." * _I have to do something._ * He eased an unresisting Yuri back down onto the mattress. "Put a pillow over your head - I'm going to turn the light on." At Yuri's mumbled assent, Victor pulled the blanket over Yuri's prone form and bounded from the bed, feet tangling in the flowered branches that covered the floor so extensively that they surrounded the bed. He was desperate for activity, for distraction. If he lay back down, all he'd think about would be--

* _For fuck's sake stop thinking about it!_ *

* _But one morning I will wake up to find Yuri cold and empty. One morning I'll wake up and he'll be gone as if he'd never been._ *

Victor's stomach roiled. Their relationship wasn't supposed to get this serious. He had liked Yuri, sure, but pushing Yuri to live with him, stay with him, had been only a kindness, an act of charity to a dying man.

* _Is that really what happened?_ *

* _It doesn't matter. However things started, they're serious now._ *

* _And one morning...one day soon..._ *

Wading through plant life, Victor crossed the room and slapped the light switch. Light dazzled his eyes and showed him Yuri blinking and squinting on the bed, face uncovered despite Victor's suggestion, and more cherry blossoms than one tree could have supported carpeting the wooden floor.

Yuri almost always vomited sakura now.

In Russia, the pink blooms were associated with a good education, innocuous enough, but in Japan there was a myth that the pink hue came from corpses buried beneath the trees, and the flowers were symbolic of the transcience of life.

* _Don't think about it!_ *

Victor couldn't help but think about it. The signs that Yuri's time was close were everywhere. Watching the man he loved die in slow motion was killing Victor emotionally as surely as Hanahaki disease was killing Yuri physically.

"Victor..." Yuri's forlorn voice worried Victor. He forced a smile on his face, bent down and began gathering branches thick with pink blossoms into a haphazard bouquet. Petals rained down as he worked. Once upon a time, the flowers Yuri produced were healthy, petals firmly attached, aroma of sweet attar wafting about them. Now, they barely held together, wilted from the moment they escaped Yuri, and they smelled dusty and dry or wet and moldy.

* _Yuri no longer has enough soul left to nourish the flowers, or himself. Both are decaying._ *

Victor grabbed a garbage bag from a spool he kept by the door and stuffed the flowers into it. Dropping to his knees, he picked up the next bunch. Petals and twigs crunched beneath his weight.

* _All dying...all dying alike...why does everyone I love, everyone I might have loved, die? Soulmates are bullshit. Love is bullshit._ *

A hand intercepted his as he reached for the next twisted tree branch. Startled, he looked up to find Yuri beside him, features twisted in pain.

"Yuri, are you alright?" Alarm jolted Victor cold and hot by turns. He dropped the bouquet he held, shook off Yuri's hand, and placed his palms on Yuri's cheeks. "You shouldn't be out of bed. Is there anything I can--"

Yuri grabbed him in a crushing embrace, so tight he squawked in protest.

"Yuri--"

"Stop."

"But Yu--"

"Stop, Victor."

"I'm fine!"

Yuri drew back to show Victor a sad smile. "You're not. And you don't have to be. Heck, if you were fine, I'd be a little offended."

"Why do you think I'm--"

A quirked eyebrow was all Yuri needed to interrupt him. Victor scowled, opened his mouth to try again, and was cut off by Yuri's hand brushing against his cheek. It came away beaded with moisture.

"You're crying, Victor."

"Fuck," he muttered.

Yuri laughed, musical and sweet, and Victor's resolution to clean up, to stay awake until he'd exhausted himself enough that he'd stop thinking about Yuri dying,  crumbled. By small tugs and nudges, Yuri pulled him back to bed and they crept back under the covers together. They were silent for a long time but there was no pretending either was asleep. Yuri was curled close to him, their arms slung over each other's backs, their legs interwoven. It was warm and sweet and wonderful and Victor had never felt so afraid. Yuri coughed and a single flower tumbled between them, crushed by their bodies. Something on the flower - a branch tip, Victor thought - pricked his side but he didn't bother moving.

They didn't have long.

That used to mean they had weeks or months left together. Now, Victor feared Yuri wouldn't survive the night.

"I don't want you to go," Victor whispered.

"I don't want to go...I don't want to * _die,_ *" Yuri bit the last word out, forsaking the euphemism. "Why couldn't I have gone before, when I didn't care? Maybe I should have..." He shook his head, tickling Victor's chin with his hair. "But if I'd ended things a year ago I never would have met you. I still don't know which would've been worse - never meeting you, or having you only to die knowing you'll be alone again."

"I'll be fine," Victor lied. Yuri didn't dignify his bullshit with an answer. In his mind's eye Victor could perfectly envision Yuri's dismissive eye roll. How long before the memory of Yuri's face grew blurry and faded with time? Victor struggled to etch the sweep of Yuri's hair, the curve in his smile, the twinkle in his eye, into his undying memory.

* _Why did I tell him I'd be fine?_ *

Yuri coughed again, and another flowers was crushed between them.

* _Doesn't that merely send the message that I don't care enough to be distraught when he's gone?_ *

A fresh tear fell from Victor's eyes and caught in Yuri's hair.

* _I won't be fine._ *

As if Yuri knew Victor wept again, his arms spasmed and pulled their bodies closer again. Rough flower stem abraded Victor's chest.

* _I worry that I'll never be fine again._ *

Skin and bone felt flimsy beneath Victor's fingers as he ran a hand down Yuri's skeletal back.

* _When Yuri is gone, which will matter more - that I kept up a bold, good humored front 'til the bitter end, or that I told him that I..._ *

"I love you, Yuri. I'll always..."

Victor's voice failed him.

"I don't want to die," Yuri whispered. Wetness tickled Victor's neck and chest where Yuri's tears flowed over his skin. "I don't want...I don't..." Yuri shook his head, shook whatever he'd thought to say away, and smeared tears over Victor's clavicle.

They were alike made mute in grief.

"I love you," Victor repeated. "I love you." He said it again, again and again, until his awareness faded to nothing.

* * *

Fright jolted Victor awake to his bedroom glowing gray in the pre-dawn. Clammy fear made his hands shake - Yuri was cold, so cold against him, oh God - but then he felt the feeble heartbeat thrumming against his chest. His muscles untensed and he relaxed back against the bed.

"Victor? What time's it?" Yuri mumbled.

"Time enough," he replied, relieved.

To Victor's surprise, Yuri shifted and put a little distance between them, lifted himself on an elbow and stared blearily down.

"What's that mean?"

"You're not dead," said Victor.

"You thought it'd be last night?" asked Yuri, rolling onto his back and raising his arms over his head.

"I think it's going to be every night," Victor confessed. "And no sooner am I glad to find I'm wrong than I start worrying that--"

"Victor!" Breathless excitement gave Yuri's voice strength it had not had in weeks. Yuri lay frozen, arms still raised over him, forearms above his face.

"Are you al--"

Yuri lunged across the bed, grabbed Victor's arm and twisted it around so that his tattooed forearm faced the light.

"What are you--"

"Shh!" Yuri snapped.

"You don't have to keep interrupting me," grumbled Victor.

"Tell me you see this!" Yuri exclaimed.

"It's a very nice rose, Yuri, but--"

"Quit being an idiot and use your eyes," said Yuri, pulling Victor's arm so that their two forearms lined up. Stifling a yawn, Victor sat half-upright to see what Yuri was on about. He did think their rose and champagne complimented well but looking now only made him feel--

Victor froze.

His rose was gone.

Yuri's champagne bottle was gone.

In place of their old tattoos they each bore matching ones, blood-red rose petals like those of Victor's missing rose scattered amidst broken shards of green glass like that of the bottle that had once adorned Yuri's arm.

"I've finally lost my mind, haven't I," said Yuri, looking imploringly at Victor. "That's it, right? That has to be it."

"They match," Victor croaked. "Yuri, they match!"

"It's impossible! Tattoos don't change!"

"I've heard stories..."

"Did you believe them?"

"No."

"Neither did I," said Yuri. "But I don't feel sick. I'm not nauseous! I actually feel...I feel good, Victor. I feel * _amazing._ *"

Looking at the tattoos filled Victor with elation beyond anything he's dreamt off. Scrambling across the bed to embrace Yuri, to hold him and whisper devotion in his ear, something bit into Victor's knee. Pain blossomed outward and he tumbled back.

Tucked into a fold in the bedding were two red roses, thorns prominent on their stems, petals the worse for wear after spending the night on the bed.

The two flowers Yuri had coughed up at the last.

Red roses symbolized true love.

Victor retrieved them and held them toward Yuri. There was something endearingly formal in the way Yuri accepted them.

"Never leave me?" implored Victor as the second flower passed from his hand to Yuri's.

"I swear, I never will," Yuri replied, voice and face alike easy with serenity.

"I never will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a page from my friend jhoom, here's a bonus scene outline. Actually including this in a full story would make the whole thing much longer than I want to commit to but I had to at least share the idea with you.  
> *  
> Setting: a corporate award ceremony.
> 
> CEO of Victor's company: we're pleased to announce the corporate merger between us and Toki Bank! Please welcome their officers...Mr. blah blah...Mrs. blah blah blah...so and so blah...blah blah... blah...Hiroshi Takei...
> 
> Victor: *freezes* *stares* *thinks of everything Yuri has ever told him about his ex Hiroshi* *is instantly sure - yep that's the son of a bitch*
> 
> Victor: *gets up*
> 
> CEO: haha, not so fast Victor, we'll get to our introductions next!
> 
> Victor: *crosses to Hiroshi*
> 
> CEO: Victor, what are you--
> 
> Victor: *decks Hiroshi across the jaw as hard as he can, knocking him to the floor*
> 
> *cue collective gasp*
> 
> CEO: What the hell are you *doing?*
> 
> Hiroshi: *has never been more confused in his life* *cradles his jaw and starts to rise*
> 
> Victor: *punches him again*
> 
> CEO: stop him!
> 
> *four people restrain Victor before he can switch to kicking*
> 
> CEO: *confronts Victor* Explain yourself, Nikiforov!
> 
> Victor: he gave my husband Hanahaki disease!
> 
> CEO: Yuri...? But Yuri is alive...
> 
> Victor: yeah, no thanks to him!
> 
> CEO: but--
> 
> Hiroshi: Yuri is *alive?* *all eyes turn him. He looks absolutely horrified at the prospect of Yuri Katsuki not being dead.* That's impossible! I...I mean...
> 
> *everyone stares condemnation at him.*
> 
> Hiroshi: I mean...uh...who is Yuri?
> 
> One of Hiroshi's coworkers: I remember Yuri, you stopped bringing him as a plus one a couple years ago. Weren't you married?
> 
> Another of Hiroshi's coworkers: you were soulmates...I remember seeing the tats...champagne bottles...
> 
> Someone in the background: it must be a different Yuri.
> 
> *cell phones come out, photos are loaded, it's obviously the same Yuri*
> 
> *those holding Victor let him go*
> 
> Victor: you shouldn't do that...I'm just going to punch him again...
> 
> Hiroshi's coworker: may I punch him next?
> 
> CEO: Hiroshi, you're fired.
> 
> *Hiroshi has a very bad day*
> 
> *Victor has a very good day*
> 
> *when Yuri is later shown video of the whole incident, he also has a very good day, though he makes a token effort to scold Victor for resorting to violence.*
> 
> *Yuri's scolding is shown to be bullshit by just how enthusiastically he fucks Victor that night*
> 
> *the end*
> 
> *  
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> For multi-fandom writing, reblogs of fanart, and general hanging out and chilling, follow me at unforth-ninawaters (in case my posted works don't make it clear, primary fandoms are MCU, YoI and Supernatural)

**Author's Note:**

> Read more about flower meanings here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plant_symbolism


End file.
